An Antipodean Adventure
by maudlinrose
Summary: An AU sort of thing. Lily and James run to New Zealand rather than face the wrath of Lord Voldemort. Harry grows up in suburbia. Mr. Malfoy becomes a politician. Mrs. Malfoy gets fat. Draco hates Hogwarts. There may be traces of humour, here.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: If you think I own this, then you're wrong. I don't think I've horribly plagiarised anyone, but if I have, tell me, and I'll stop writing and apologise profusely. There's a little quote from Hilaire Belloc's poem "Lord Lundy" in there, and the rest is Harry Potter. The Association of Consumers and Taxpayers (ACT) is a real political party in NZ, as is National. The election's coming up later this month, and I'm a politics student, so I have it on my mind.  
  
Rating: PG-13 Rude language. Sexual innuendo. Might contain slash, eventually, if it fits with the storyline, which is doubtful at this stage.  
  
Author's note: There's a little dictionary of NZ slang terms at the end of every chapter, in case anyone is confused and can be bothered. Feedback would be nice.  
  
An Antipodean Adventure  
  
Part One  
  
by maudlinrose (email maudinrose@hotmail.com)  
  
It's times like these, Lily thought, that she almost regretted marrying a Gryffindor. Bravery and courage were all very well, but sometimes her desire to survive outweighed her desire to fight. This was one of those moments. With a fifteen-month-old infant in her arms, another on the way, and a mad killer trying to beat down the front door, the only thing Lily wanted to do was run.  
  
But how could she convince her utterly Gryffindor-ish husband?  
  
Convince? Hah. This was not a time for logical argument, either. This was a time for hurriedly grabbing a bag, chucking some nappies and a couple of bottles in it, reaching out to grasp said husband, and Apparating far, far away. As far as anyone could get.  
  
Lily is a Gryffindor, too, and doesn't have any trouble at all acting quickly in extreme situations. With A plan of action firmly in her head, Lily races through her house, all the while clutching little Harry, throwing useful objects into her Compressed Space Bag Max (Holds Up To Four Tonnes - Perfect For Family Vacations) and heads towards James, who has an unseemly gleam of amusement in his eyes.  
  
They leave the building just as Peter Pettigrew and his Lord enter.  
  
Peter Pettigrew's body isn't found until four weeks later. There are advantages to living in the country.  
  
*  
  
Voldemort has an extremely long arm. It stretched out across most of mainland Europe, and encompassed the ancient cities of Rome, Athens, and Sparta. Voldemort and his Association of Consumers and Taxpayers - they'd found "Death Eaters" a little too childish - could search out any individual, be it wizard or muggle, and be on their doorstep with a frightening mask and a wand within the hour. Upper Management take pride in this fact. They'd even managed more than a dozen triple-murders and a couple of massacres within four hours one day.  
  
Voldemort's arm, however, does not reach as far as New Zealand. Truthfully, he didn't want it to. There's really no need to take over a country where most of the occupants are sheep.  
  
The Wizarding Order wasn't very established there either. A lot of the people who'd emigrated there during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries had wanted to get away from their lives in the Motherland, including the social order. New Zealand wizards are generally suspicious of one another, guarding their baches in the Coromandel peninsula jealously. There is a school, yes, if you could call three pre-fabs and hall stuck in the middle of nowhere, with chickens and goats - along with some rare, endemic species of Mountain Troll - roaming around at will, a school. The New Zealand Wizarding community do, although some, with an eye to the future, send their kids off to Hogwarts - though this is mainly limited to the richer families.  
  
*  
  
James and Lily Potter eye their new home with distaste. Little Harry, now beginning to toddle around, pokes at an ant and proclaims "Bug!" in a cute little voice. A pronounced frown begins to form on Lily's face. Her nose turns up. The landlord frowns.  
  
"Look, if you don't want it, say so. I haven't got all day," says one Murray Flank. When the couple just stand there, looking English, Mr Flank turns and begins to march doggedly back to his car, muttering under his breath something like "bloody Poms, sticking their noses up at my home," ignoring the fact that he'd never lived in the three bedroom Art Deco himself and had, in fact, bought it as an investment back in the early Seventies. It had declined since then, having spent almost a decade as a flat for Arts students up at the University of Auckland.  
  
"No, no," starts James, rather frantically, "It's very nice, Mr. Flank. My wife and I are just a little... anxious. You did say the rent includes water and rates, and that a stove comes with the property?"  
  
"Yeah," mutters Mr. Flank, "$120, payable weekly."  
  
"When can we move in?"  
  
*  
  
"It simply won't do, James. We must buy our own home, as soon as we can. I hate it here, in this greasy little hovel. The wallpaper's peeling and the carpet is disgusting. D'you know, I found William walking along the top of the fence yesterday? He's two years old, darling. What would happen should he fall?"  
  
"Fine, fine. Look, I should be getting promoted soon. The Department of Magical Affairs is looking for a new Liaison Officer for the entire Auckland region to replace Everett Greirer, and my name's been put forward. We can save up and get a mortgage then, okay?"  
  
*  
  
As it turns out, it took Lily and James almost three years to save up to put a decent deposit on a nice four-bedroomed place on the Shore. By then, their family numbers five, Elizabeth having been born the year Harry was four, and Harry has started primary school. He's looking forward to getting out of New Entrants, and likes bugs. William likes kindergarten, ate grass and daisies on a regular basis, and had the annoying habit of biting the furniture. Elizabeth doesn't have much of a personality yet, but it's bound to be as utterly adorable as the other two, just as soon as it appears.  
  
They haven't told any of the kids they're wizards, yet. It's a little hard to explain to a child that you're on the run from a madman armed with a wand. Harry is in a muggle school, too, and five year olds aren't the best at keeping secrets.  
  
The house was quite flash, with a view of the Harbour and an ensuite bathroom off the master bedroom. Twin internal garaging, too, which held their muggle car and James' old racing brooms. The neighbours on either side are nice family people who voted National and invited Lily over for a cuppa on weekday mornings. Down the road and round the corner a bit are the Glades, a Wizarding family consisting of two adults, two children under five, and a pet Kneazle. They'd told the Potters about the property in the first place, wanting to have another Wizarding family within yelling distance. Mr. William Glade works for the Department, too, and James and Bill are often found arguing about policy over a beer on Friday evenings.  
  
It's all very suburban.  
  
*  
  
It's winter in England, and snowing. The wind rushes round the Manor like it's got something against rich Wizarding families. Lucius tightens his cloak, adjusts his hat, and walks through the ancient wood on the edge of the estate.  
  
He's been a member of the Death Eaters since he left Hogwarts, and had, in truth, been the one to suggest the current name, shortened to the Association, in the first place. At first it had been fun, what with the murdering and the pillaging. He'd delighted in the screams of his victims, and had cackled like a mad witch whenever the building he'd just departed collapsed into a heap of smouldering rubble.  
  
It's getting blasé, now.  
  
Narcissa has begun making muttered statements about the state of the gardens. Apparently, she doesn't like all the vicious thorns and poisonous flowers. She thinks one of the children - they have three now, Draco, Augustus, and Lucia - might get lost in the Maze of Doom. She wants a cottage garden, with lavender. She thinks it might soften the "harsh aspect of this dreadful monstrosity, darling. Honestly, I've got a decorator picked out already. Rafael suggests powder green, with silver accents, for the entry hall."  
  
Narcissa never used to mutter. His wonderful, silver-haired wife used to be the type to simply raise an eyebrow whenever something she didn't like occurred. He'd actually caught her sobbing over Draco's hair last Wednesday. Apparently, it doesn't curl like it used to. She's gotten domestic, with stretch marks on her abdomen and short hair because Augustus pulled it. She doesn't even wear jewellery much any more, and fired the nanny when she caught the old hag trying to bully Lucia into taking a bath - "She was being terribly vicious, Lucius, just terribly, horribly mean. Darling Lucia just looked so upset. She had to go." In the old days, 'having to go' would have involved a midnight burial.  
  
Narcissa doesn't like the Association. It takes him too far away from his wife and children. He should be teaching Draco the rudiments of dragon baiting and potion making, instead of torturing muggles in Paris.  
  
An unhappy Narcissa made for an unhappy Lucius. After all, the Malfoy vaults had been refilled with Hollywell Galleons, and they could be made empty very, very quickly. The Association, it seems, really must go. And it was all up to him - he was Vice-Lord and Director of Communications. If there's going to be a coup and an assassination or twelve, he'll have to instigate it.  
  
*  
  
Lord Voldemort is found dead in his London residence on Friday the Thirteenth of August, 1986. He's wearing only a pair of red lace panties and a noose. A manual entitled "Masturbation - A How To Guide" is found lying open at page 37 at his feet. It looks like a set-up, certainly, only the Aurors who find him are too amused by the situation to work that out. Stupid ex-Gryffindors, all of them. And, anyway, who would do such a thing? Actually touch Lord Voldemort, strangle him with your bare hands, and watch as the life left his body until he was as cold and dead as your poor mother....  
  
Anyway.  
  
There've been a number of highly suspicious sexually related deaths in Wizarding England, lately. The Europeans are beginning to make jokes about it. With the deaths of these sometimes embarrassingly well-connected aristocrats had come a large drop in the number of muggle-born and muggle deaths, so everything worked out okay.  
  
*  
  
Lucius is happy. Voldemort is dead, Narcissa is growing her hair, and Augustus, their youngest, has started sleeping through the night. He has plans for the Association, plans that involve turning it into a legitimate political party. He quite fancied being Minister of Magic, but three. The stocks were sold, the press was squared, the Middle Class was quite prepared, and he's buggered if he's going to give it all up and live a quiet, domestic life in the country. He's spent far too long chasing Association members to their homes, tying them up in lace and hemp rope, and battering them to death with rubber dildoes to give up now. Draco has referred to him as "that strange man, Mummy," in his hearing twice now. The little brat needs to be taken in hand and taught how to run the Malfoy estate while he's still young to be indoctrinated with the correct values. Starting now. No, really.  
  
"Daddy, what's a dildo?"  
  
"Draco! Where did you hear that word?"  
  
"You just said it, Daddy."  
  
"Er... you're too young to know. Now sit down, young man. I'm going to tell you all about Noblesse Oblige."  
  
"Yes, Daddy."  
  
"Now, you see, in the world there are two types of people. There are the Purebloods, who are smart and kind and gentle, and there are Mudbloods, who are dumb cattle-like creatures who want nothing more than to destroy civilisation as we know it. We're Purebloods, Draco, and it's our job to be nice to the Mudbloods, and hope that one day they'll figure - what, Draco?!?"  
  
*  
  
Dictionary of Terms:  
  
Nappies: diapers, in the US.  
  
Bach (plural: baches): a sort of holiday house, except the same family has usually kept them up for several generations. They're usually rather basic dwellings, with bunk beds and possibly an outside toilet. At least, that's the traditional meaning.  
  
Pom: a derogatory name for an Englishman  
  
Flat: shared accommodation. Flatmates (I think) are like roommates in the US. Flats can be apartments, or separate houses. Student flats are notoriously grotty old hovels.  
  
The Shore: the North Shore of Auckland. North of Auckland Central, a group of reasonably affluent suburbs.  
  
Flash: expensive, flashy.  
  
The Harbour: Auckland Harbour.  
  
National: In this context, it refers to the National Party, which is a centre-right party led at this stage in history (the late 80s) by Jim Bolger.  
  
ACT (the Association of Consumers and Taxpayers): this is another real political party in New Zealand. It did not, however, exist until 1990 or so (I think). It's an extreme right party, led by people like Roger Douglas and Richard Prebble. At the time Voldemort dies (1986) in this story, both of these men are members of the Labour Party, a centre-left party. The movement of these men, and their allies, from the left to the extreme right bamboozled many New Zealanders. I thought the name appropriate for the Death Eaters. 


	2. Chapter Two

Disclaimer: If you think I own this, then you're wrong. I don't think I've horribly plagiarised anyone, but if I have, tell me, and I'll stop writing and apologise profusely. There's a little quote from Hilaire Belloc's poem "Lord Lundy" in there, and the rest is Harry Potter. The Association of Consumers and Taxpayers (ACT) is a real political party in NZ, as is National. The election's coming up later this month, and I'm a politics student, so I have it on my mind.  
  
Rating: PG-13 Rude language. Sexual innuendo. Might contain slash, eventually, if it fits with the storyline, which is doubtful at this stage.  
  
Author's note: There's a little dictionary of NZ slang terms at the end of every chapter, in case anyone is confused and can be bothered. Feedback would be nice.  
  
An Antipodean Adventure  
  
By maudlinrose  
  
Part Two  
  
It happens then that the Potter children, named as they are after English monarchs, grow up to be not in the least bit noble. Oh, no. They are tall, yes, and good looking - sturdy looking creatures from suburban Auckland, but not in the least bit upper class. They shop at Takapuna and Milford, go to the movies, and generally amuse themselves with the strange combination of the muggle and magical worlds they find themselves living in.  
  
At eleven, they'd gone off to the New Zealand Institute for Magical Learning, rather than being sent to the local intermediate, and there they have stayed. The teachers might be disillusioned with the whole education thing, and prone to going on strike for improved pay and conditions whenever they felt like it, but the students learn all the required curriculum, including making Portkeys and how to avoid the magical law enforcement in other nations.  
  
Harry is fifteen, tall, athletic looking, and bored. The other Wizarding boys his age are trying to set up some kind of Quidditch match - North Island vs. South, but Harry doesn't really go in for team sports. Or, in fact, any kind of sport. He may look like he dodges Bludgers for a living, but he truly despises anything that makes him sweat. Except sexual activity. He hasn't quite figured out that there is a connection between being seen playing dangerous sports and having young witches and wizards fall at your feet in anticipation, but he's young. He'll get there.  
  
"Harry, you know you'll never pass Potions if you don't study."  
  
"It's January, Mum. We're on holiday. You know, that thing called summer?"  
  
"You know, that thing called sarcasm? Don't. Teenage rebellion is one thing, but outright disrespect is another. We can always send you back to England, you know, and you'll have to go to boarding school."  
  
"Mum! That's a horrible thing to threaten me with!"  
  
"Well, why don't you go outside then, it's a nice day."  
  
"I don't want to."  
  
"I don't care. Go to the beach. Swim. Annoy the girl next door. I don't care... just... go, Harry. I have stuff to do."  
  
"You never tell Will or Liz they have to go outside, not if they don't want."  
  
Lily sighs. "Harry, how many times have we had this conversation? For the love of Christ, it's because they're the good children."  
  
"Fine, fine, whatever. I'm going. I need money."  
  
"Muggle or Wizarding?"  
  
"Doesn't matter. Lots, though. Haven't bought Dad a present yet."  
  
"Harry! His birthday is tomorrow."  
  
"So?"  
  
"So? So, you're supposed to plan things better than that. You know, shop in advance?"  
  
"Don't like shopping."  
  
"Make him something then."  
  
"Bit late for that, isn't it? It's his birthday tomorrow."  
  
Sometimes, Lily muses, she regrets having children in the first place.  
  
*  
  
"Harry? Come down here for a moment," Lily calls her errant son.  
  
"Yes, mum?" asks Harry.  
  
"Look. You know the Ministry back in England has sent a representative out here for a month?"  
  
". yeah." says Harry, sounding doubtful.  
  
"Well, the funny thing is, your father and I went to school with him and his wife. Of course, he was a few years ahead of us, but Mrs. Malfoy was in my year. And they brought their children out - something about their oldest not liking boarding school much, and getting all resentful and uncommunicative, so they took the opportunity to spend a month with him. There's only a few official meetings for Mr. Malfoy to deal with, so they're going to explore the country a bit as a family while they're here."  
  
"Okaaay. I really don't see what this has to do with me."  
  
"Er, well. Draco - that's the oldest - he's your age. And I told Mrs. Malfoy, and she agreed, that it would be nice if you showed him round town while he's here. You know, show him what you kids do?"  
  
"So, mum, what you're saying is you want me to spend my valuable summer holiday showing around some aristocratic kid whose parents are supposed to be taking the time to 'get to know him' but apparently want to fob him off on me instead?"  
  
"Yes, Harry, that's precisely what I'm saying. You will be nice. You will be kind. You will make your mother proud. You understand? It'd make your father happy, too. He didn't like Mr. Malfoy much when he was at school, and doesn't want it to look like he's still holding a grudge."  
  
"Alright then. Do I get paid for this?"  
  
"Your father and I have agreed to refund you any and all reasonable expenses you may incur during your time with the Malfoy's son. Reasonable does not include the purchase of chocolate or sweets. You will provide us with receipts."  
  
"Woohoo! So, technically, we could go to McDonalds for lunch everyday, and you'd have to pay me back, because it's, like, cultural and shit."  
  
"McDonalds is not cultural, Harry."  
  
"It so is. I mean, the guy's an English pureblood, right? And, like, McDonalds is an icon of muggle life. It's symbolic of the enforced Americanisation of New Zealand culture. One cannot truly experience the muggle lifestyle without choking down a Quarter Pounder once or twice. The Quarter Pounder is a case in point, mum. New Zealand doesn't even use the imperial system of weights anymore - not since, when, 1967? Yet we constantly - "  
  
"Harry."  
  
"Yes, mum?"  
  
"I'm not paying you to take some boy to McDonalds."  
  
"God, you're so horrible to me."  
  
"Like I said, you're not the good child."  
  
*  
  
"Harry, this is Draco Malfoy. Draco, this is my son, Harry." "Um, hi."  
  
"Hello."  
  
"Harry, do you want to take Draco to the beach?"  
  
"What, now?"  
  
"Oh, for the love of. yes, Harry, now."  
  
"Right then."  
  
The two boys head outside, Draco following the taller Harry. Nothing is said for a while. There seem to be a lot of hills in Auckland, and Draco is panting, a bit. They stop at the top of a hill, and look down towards a sandy beach. Harry speaks.  
  
"Draco? Draco Malfoy?"  
  
"Think my name's funny, do you?"  
  
"Your name is Draco. What do you think? I mean, I thought Henry was bad. At least nobody calls me that."  
  
"Henry?"  
  
"It's my real first name, stupid. Everyone calls me Harry though."  
  
"You're right. It's not as bad as Draco. Wasn't one of the muggle English kings called Henry?"  
  
"You really don't get out much, do you?"  
  
"What do you mean by that?"  
  
Harry rolls his eyes. "There were eight English kings called Henry. The eighth beheaded two of his wives, changed the entire English Church so he could divorce his first, and had a boil on his thigh you could stick a fist in."  
  
"Oh. Heh."  
  
The silence between the two is broken only by the sound of rubber slapping on the tarseal. Sun shines through the trees. The sky is a fresh, clean blue. Seagulls squawk as they make their merry way down to the beach, in search of food. Draco wishes he'd thought to bring a hat along. His pale English skin is no match for the burning New Zealand summer. The ozone is thin, here, and he'll be as red as a lobster by the end of the day. Harry looks unconcerned by the heat, and slaps absently at a fly.  
  
"Well, this is it. The beach."  
  
"I can see that."  
  
It's strange. Most guys Draco knows are not bothered by silence. Conversations with his Slytherin housemates are dominated by it, and punctuated with grunts. He's never worried about it before. But silence with Harry is different, hard somehow. Twelve thousand kilometres of culture shock sits between them like a glass barrier. For once in his life, he doesn't know what to say.  
  
"Look, Malfoy, I'm going to go up to the dairy. Get an ice cream or something. D'you want one?"  
  
"Er, okay. Can I come?"  
  
"What, to the dairy?"  
  
"What else would I be talking about, Harry?"  
  
"Fine. It's just up the road. See the sign?"  
  
Draco is confused as to why a dairy would be signposted, but it becomes clear to him as they reach a rather decrepit building and Harry stops, turns, and looks at Draco expectantly. "So, what d'you want?" It seems that, in New Zealand, a dairy is a kind of general shop, like those found in more rural areas of Wizarding Britain.  
  
*  
  
It's not until they finish their iceblocks that Draco feels the need to make a snarky comment. After all, Harry's the one who bought the sticky blue iceblock that has dripped all over Draco's fingers because he'd been too slow in eating it; he doesn't even have anything to wipe them on, except his clothes.  
  
"So, Harry, you like New Zealand? The isolation, the natural beauty? The complete lack of basic amenities?"  
  
"Well, yeah."  
  
Damn. "And you like being the most mediocre member of a mediocre family"  
  
"Yep, less pressure."  
  
Does the guy not understand that he's being insulted? "So. I hear that your school doesn't even have a Quidditch Tournament. Or even a real curriculum."  
  
"Why the hell are you asking me about school, anyway? I'm on holiday, for Christ sakes. And, like, why are you even here - shouldn't you be in school? You know, with the snow and the cold and the shared bathrooms?"  
  
"My father took us off school for the month."  
  
"Good for him. I'm going swimming."  
  
The fucking git. "Thanks for the. iceblock?"  
  
"Whatever."  
  
*  
  
Dictionary of Terms:  
  
Takapuna and Milford: suburbs on the North Shore  
  
Intermediate: students normally start intermediate at age 10 or 11, and go on to High School at age 12 or 13.  
  
Rubber: presumably from the soles of their shoes. I don't know why I felt the need to clarify this.  
  
Tarseal: refers to the surface of the road. On really hot summer days, the tar melts, and your jandals - called, variously, flip flops, thongs, or Japanese sandals - stick to the road. It sucks. 


End file.
